


Mother Mary

by Tammany



Series: Mary Morstan Stories [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Pairings, Character Study, Gen, OT3-ish
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-06
Updated: 2014-04-06
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:25:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1425013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tammany/pseuds/Tammany
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a short bit that presupposes that Sherlock's "vow" to John and Mary was heartfelt...and working with the assumption that whatever else Sherlock is or is not, he's primarly most attracted to those he most LIKES. In this he adores John, but has also come to adore Mary in her own right--and may come to feel that way about Janine: he's in the process of answering that question, though that is only a secondary or tertiary concern.</p><p>This is mainly interaction between Mary and Sherlock, and echoes their conversation outside the kebab shop in "Empty Hearse," but with something approaching a year and a half more experience. It's post-Vow, and Mycroft's in the process of trying to bring Sherlock back into polite society....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mother Mary

“Well, isn’t this nice,” Mary said, cradling the round mound of her belly. She sat somewhat awkwardly in the restaurant chair and studied the dancers on the dance floor. She gave a crooked grin. “So nice of your brother to invite us.”

“You’re insurance,” Sherlock said, amused in a sarky, snide sort of way. “He expects me to _behave_.You and John and Janine are his hostages to ensure my party manners are on display tonight.”

“And if he hadn’t invited us?”

“I can see three members of the Shadow Government I’d dearly love to make small-talk with,” Sherlock said with a smirk.

“Small-talk?”

“That’s what I call it. Mycroft’s term is something like, ‘sow chaos.’”

Mary chuckled. “Which of you is the more accurate?”

“There’s a reason Mycroft’s the one with the more dependable income.”

“So they pay big brother the big bucks for his talent?” she said, amused. Her blue eyes sparkled with laughter.

He returned the look, equally delighted. “Yep. I’m told your former lot pay him a four-figure bonus for every consultative phone call they make.”

Mary pondered, eyes darkening as she considered. She nodded. “I’d believe that. He's the one I ran to when I ran.”

Sherlock nodded. The two watched as John and Janine turned lazily on the dance floor. Both winced as they caromed into an older couple in mid-waltz.

“How do we score that crash?” Mary asked, face drawn in campy dismay.

“They nailed a Duke and Duchess,” Sherlock said. “Not _Royal_ Duke or Duchess, though. Twenty-five each, for a total of fifty? I believe that brings the total up to ninety-five. Five more and you owe me two loaves of saffron cake.”

She sighed. “It may have to wait till after delivery,” she said, patting her stomach again. “Or…I suppose I could knead it with the bread hook. Seems like cheating, though.”

“No rush,” Sherlock said. “More important you take care of yourself.” He risked a fond glance over at her.

She smiled, heart warm. He was like the little brother she’d never had…a brother who appeared to get along with her a good deal more than he got along with his own big brother.

Their eyes returned to the dance floor, and the couple wallowing there.

“They’re darlings,” Mary said. Then, cautiously, “Any chance of you and…” She glanced sideways, and grinned to see too many expressions rise, be suppressed, only to rise again on Sherlock’s face. She snorted. “Ooooh, now that was just too adorable.” She struggled to sit straighter, trying to snag a yellow daisy out of the bouquet at the center of the table.

Reach-flail. Reach-flail. Reach-flail.

She swore.

Sherlock leaned forward and deftly snagged a flower, offering it to her, only to frown as she began picking petals out.

“What…?”

She chuckled, low and evil. “He loves him. He loves her. He loves him. He loves her…”

His hand darted in and tugged the flower away. If the room had been better lit she would have seen his cheeks, scorching red.

She laughed, fondly, and slipped her hand over to pat his knee. “Settle, ‘Baby.’”

He huffed. “John’s my best friend.”

She nodded, eyes wise and not unhappy. “Yes.”

He didn’t say more.

“They can’t either of them dance, can they?” she said.

“Not even after lessons,” he agreed.

“I wish I’d been there to see that,” she said.

“Which?”

“Either,” she said, smiling. “Both.”

“John wouldn’t want me to give lessons to them both. Three people can’t dance together, according to John. At least, not at once,” he said, slyly.

“Oh, well. _John_.” She rolled her eyes in loving laughter. “He’s…a bit stuffy.” She slipped her hand over and held his, tight.

He clutched hers back. “And you’re…not.”

“Not very. Realistic, though. Very realistic.”

He nodded. “I can live with that.” His voice made it clear that he understood that her limits would respect John’s—and that he was all right with that.

She was the one who nodded, then. “Yep. So,” she added, “Janine?”

He shrugged, still hanging on to her hand. “I like her.”

“Like-like? Or just…sort of like?”

He blinked and looked at her owlishly. “I’m trying to find out.”

She sighed, softly. “Dreamboat, you are. Every girl’s fantasy: a man who has to fall in love to fall in lust.”

“Fall in like,” he corrected her, reprovingly.

“All right. Still.”

He gave her hand a squeeze. She returned it.

Mycroft, stalking by, frowned at the hands, folded together, fingers meshed. He met Sherlock’s eye with a scolding glance. Sherlock just grinned, mischievously, and murmured as his brother prowled away, “He doesn’t approve.”

She sniffed. “He could sit down and hold my other hand. Or yours.”

“Not mine,” Sherlock said, sounding like a little boy worried about cooties. “You hold his hand!”

She watched the British Government walk away, and said, softly, “I would, if he’d let me.”

Sherlock cocked his head, and smiled—a puzzled, fond, uncertain smile. “You would?”

She nodded, and said firmly, “Oh, yeah.” She grinned a quiet, decided smile. “I like him.”

“You what?”

“I like him,” she said, grinning harder than ever. Then, with a groan, she rose. “New dance. Take me for a spin, Baby….and then call a taxi and send me home. Mum Watson’s tired.”


End file.
